Reflections of the Soul
by wanderingwidget
Summary: First installment of my Soul Series. Jack goes on walkabout after a traumatic mission. Everyone else goes crazy with worry. UPDATED: spelling errors should be fixed.


Title: Reflections of the Soul  
  
Genre: angst  
  
Rating: PG-13/ R  
  
Pairings: None  
  
Author's notes: This is the first in a series still in progress.  
  
Summary: Col. Jack O'Neill is about to find out what happens when a mind is pushed past the edge.  
  
Disclaimer: Stargate SG-1 and all associated characters and terms don't belong to me. Yadda yadda yadda. The lyrics and everything else belong to me.  
  
Prologue:  
  
I woke up this morning/ and there you stood/ in your wreath of thorns/ just like I knew you would// you never walked away/ you never backed down/ never tried to run away/ and you never bowed down// tell me what you've seen/ with your oh-so-dark eyes/ of the places you have been/ of the pain and the scars// speak to me in tongues/ that only you know/ of the horrors unsung/ and the death that you've sown///  
  
Jack fiddled with the knob on his radio, turning the volume up. The song was loud, and dark, and disturbing. It was the kind of song teen- agers on the edge, and sociopathic homicidal nuts, would listen to, while trying to forget about their lives. In short, the music fit him perfectly.  
  
He'd been driving for he didn't know how long, ever since SG-1 had returned from their mission and Doc. Frasier had given him the green light. That was all he knew for certain. On his way out of the mountain he'd been, vaguely, aware of the looks shot at him. Pity, shock, surprise, disbelief. Mostly though, it was a mix of pity and the sort of disgust reserved for those things you know are necessary, but wouldn't do yourself.  
  
It had taken a monumental effort of will on his part to keep from yelling at them. Or hitting them. Possibly maiming them. Maybe killing them? He shook his head and turned the music louder, pushing the thoughts out of his head with the heavy beat and grating lyrics.  
  
Daniel. Fuck. Daniel had tried to talk to him. He'd been very aware of Daniel trying to talk to him. So aware, in fact, that he'd made a conscious effort to ignore the man, nothing new, and had made an even more conscious effort to refrain from exploding in the archaeologists face. It wasn't Danny's fault. It wasn't anyone's fault. It was never anyone's fault. And he did NOT want to talk about it. And he did NOT want to think about it. Period.  
  
The song changed.  
  
Tell me a story/ baby tell me your lies/ spin me a web/ of your alibis// speak to me softly/ whisper so sweet/ tell me a story/ yeah, tell me baby// 'cause I know you're hurtin'/ been here before/ 'cause I know you're hurtin'/ babe I know what's in store///  
  
For some reason, the radio station seemed to be playing the soundtrack to his life. His life. Yet another thing that he didn't want to think about. Of course there were happy memories. Memories of Charlie, and Sarah, and a time when everything was simpler and better, and just plain good. Unfortunately, thoughts of Sarah, and especially Charlie, only brought on memories of, 'Not gonna go there, O'Neill!' he silently ordered himself, turning the volume of the music up.  
  
'cause I know you're hurtin'/ been here before/ 'cause I know you're hurtin'/ babe I know what's in store// and there ain't no shame/ in what's been done before/ looking in the mirror/ you can see to your core// Tell me a story/ baby tell me your lies/ spin me a web boy/ of your alibis///  
  
Yes, there were good memories, and he wouldn't trade them for the world, but unfortunately the memories of that period of his life were few and pale, compared to the horrors which dominated the rest of it.  
  
"Goddamnit!" he exclaimed, slapping his hand on the wheel. He didn't want to think. He wanted to loose himself. He didn't want to think about his past. Historically, or recent. He didn't want to think about any of it. Not about how he'd almost died a thousand and one times. Not about the times he actually had died, even before he'd gone through the stargate. Not about the people he'd lost and almost lost. And most especially not about his team.  
  
"Damnit!"  
  
They'd been the worst. The pain and pity on their faces had been raw and naked, and had made him ashamed. He'd known he should have at least said something to them, but he hadn't. He'd withdrawn into his protective shell like a turtle under siege. And he had absolutely no intentions of coming out.  
  
Of course, they had a right to be shocked, maybe even to show pity. The others had only heard about everything that'd gone down over the past two and a half weeks. They'd actually lived it.  
  
He shook his head at nothing and began a mental litany of every swear word he knew, in every language he knew. Languages. Daniel would probably get a kick out of finding out his friend and commanding officer, the thick headed Col. Jonathan "Jack" O'Neill, spoke not two, not three, but four languages, not including his native tongue. Arabic, Cantonese, French, and Russian. The languages of a black-ops Colonel. The languages of a killer.  
  
I'm dangerous/ to the mirror/ dangerous/ to those dear/ dangerous/ to anyone/ danger's my idea of fun// I'm dangerous/ to my enemies/ dangerous/ oh can't you see/ dangerous/ 'till no one's left/ dangerous/ to pay the debt///  
  
It had been dark when he'd left the mountain. He hadn't been paying attention to much of anything, but years of black-op training, and deep cover ops, had ingrained in him the ability to notice, assess, catalogue, and memorize, every detail of his surroundings. It had been part of his training. A sort of photographic memory on demand. The sky was slowly lightening, dawn was coming, he'd driven the entire night. He glared at the gas gauge, as he'd expected, it was nearing empty. Frankly, he didn't give a shit.  
  
He was on an old, virtually abandoned, road, in the middle of nowhere, about to run out of gas. He didn't give a fuck. If he turned around right then, he might be able to make it back to civilization, or at least an occupied farmhouse, before the old truck totally gave up. He didn't turn around. He cranked up the volume and pressed his foot down on the accelerator.  
  
A vague part of him, way in the back of his mind, knew that what he was doing was Grade A stupid, and was saying so, emphatically. But he ignored that bit of himself the same way he'd ignored the part of himself that had wanted to violently lash out at his co-workers. He had long been an expert at compartmentalization. Ever since he'd been a kid. For as long as he could remember it'd been a survival mechanism, as much as a psychological defense. It had been a part of him for so long that he shuddered to think what he'd be like without it.  
  
But he already knew what he'd be like without it. A homicidal sociopath with schizophrenic tendencies and all the training the U.S. military could pound into him. Training on how to maim, torture, and kill.  
  
He chuckled. Movies always made jokes about 'knowing more than fifty ways to kill a man with their bare hands.' He knew over 15 hundred. He'd actually sat down and made a list. It had taken him all of three working days. One of his many ways to avoid doing actual paperwork. He'd shoved it into his team folder, under 'valuable assets.'  
  
The pre-dawn twilight was just giving way to true sunrise when his truck shuddered, then sputtered to a pathetic halt on the side of the road. He sat there, listening to the radio in silence for several minutes.  
  
Can't escape/ the prisons we construct/ in our minds, souls, hearts// there's no way out/ you're a prisoner/ without parole/ leave, duty, life// a bottomless pit/ of nothingness/ into which you throw/ yourself away// a used up wrapper/ crumpled paper/ broken paper clip//  
  
He leaned his forehead against the steering wheel. Letting the absurdly loud music pound into his body, like the blows which had pounded into him so recently, and not so recently. He felt trapped, abused, and broken. And he didn't know how to put the pieces of his soul back together, let alone his mind. His heart was a foregone failure waiting to happen, he'd given up on ever repairing it after Charlie had, died.  
  
He flicked the radio off, all the better to save the battery. The sudden silence was more deafening than the jaw clenching pounding music had been. He sat in the truck cab and stared at his hands on the steering wheel, and thought nothing. He was a master at thinking nothing, and by God, he was gonna put those skills to work.  
  
He didn't think about what he was going to do next. He just grabbed his jacket from the empty seat beside him and shrugged into it, then got out and moved around to the truck bed. Under a torn and faded blue tarp were a sleeping bag and basic camp pack. He pulled them out and slung the bag over his shoulder, strapping the sleeping bag to it using the oh-so- handy straps.  
  
Briefly, he considered taking his cell phone, but he rejected the idea. He didn't want to talk to anyone. He was going to hike out into the wilderness, and stay there until he got his head screwed on straight, and then he was gonna hike to civilization and call a cab.  
One:  
  
"Jonathan Richard O'Neill, get your ass down here this minute!" Jon groaned, but rolled out of his bed, hitting the hard floor with a very audible thump.  
  
"Ow," he muttered, pushing himself up to his feet. He'd landed on his back. Of course. Of all the places he could have landed, he'd landed on his back. The one part of his body which was totally and completely covered with bruises. Old bruises, new bruises, brown bruises, green bruises, deep bruises, and shallow bruises. The most recent set were shallow, thankfully, and looking over his shoulder into the mirror, he could tell that they were turning a nice shade of purple-green. Lovely.  
  
He dressed quickly, pulling a comb through his slightly too long blond hair and dashing out of his room and down the stairs. According to the clock next to his bed, it was 3:30 am. That meant that his mother was having, yet another, 'episode.' Lucy was still recovering from her last 'episode.' Jon silently thanked God that both of his sisters were out of the house. Lucy, the eldest, was at a science seminar in Seattle. Catherine, his little sister, was staying over at her friend Molly's house for the weekend.  
  
With no little bit of trepidation, Jon moved away from the stairs and into the kitchen, where he knew his mother would be waiting. " 'bout time, boy," she muttered, turning to eye him up and down. "What the hell took you so long?" Jon didn't answer, it was the best response to her questions at times like this. Sometimes it didn't work, but actually answering her never worked.  
  
"You look just like your father," she muttered, turning back to the sink, which was full of soapy water.  
  
'Oh, hell,' Jon thought to himself. 'Not him.' During a normal, if they could be called normal, episode, his mother was bad. Very, very bad. But when she started talking about his father, that was when he knew he was in serious trouble. Life-threatening trouble.  
  
Although, he didn't suppose that he could blame her, not really. He did look like his father, as much as he wished otherwise. It had been just after Lucy's birth, Laura and Carl O'Neill had been overjoyed and living the American Dream. Then, one dark night, a man by the name of Eric Bellwether had broken into their happy home, and raped the happy mother.  
  
Eight and a half months later, he'd been born. A premature pregnancy brought on by emotional trauma and distress. He didn't know why his mother hadn't had him aborted. He didn't know why she hadn't given him up after he'd been born. All he knew was that because of him, his mother went through these 'episodes.' And she and Carl never failed to remind him that it was all his fault. Everything. Thankfully, Carl wasn't at home either. He was on the road, selling insurance door to door.  
  
"Come here, boy," she said, gesturing for him to come up beside her. What he wanted to do, was turn and run, very, very, far away. What he did was take the five steps across the room to her side.  
  
Her small, pale, fragile, hands were resting on the edge of the sink. She didn't look at him, instead staring down at the bubbles. Staring at her, Jon could only hate his father, and himself, for breaking such a beautiful woman.  
  
"Wash the dishes, boy," she said, then turned and walked to the table, where she sat, folding her hands on top.  
  
He stared at the water in trepidation. Not knowing what to expect, but expecting it to be bad, and painful. Yeah, definitely painful. He looked at his mother, begging with his eyes, but she just stared impassively at him. He could refuse, say no and go back to bed. He was 13 years old, and already 6" taller than her, plus a good 20 lbs. heavier, most of that muscle. He turned back to the sink, took a deep breath, and plunged his hands into the soapy water.  
  
He had to bite back a scream of pain. His mother wouldn't like it if he screamed. He gritted his teeth and forced his hands to search for the dishes. He didn't know what his mother had added to the water, but whatever it was, it was burning his hands. They felt like they were on fire, but he washed the dishes. Five plates, two bowls, seven spoons, knives, and forks. By the time he was done, his hands were raw and blistered, and it hurt to move them. Hell, they hurt anyway.  
  
Jon turned back to his mother, a hopeful look on his face. She smiled at him, and for a moment, just a moment, he allowed himself to believe that she would let him go. Let him go back to his room to tend his wounds and go back to sleep. No such luck.  
  
She got up, and went to the utility closet. She pulled out the rag and bucket, and Jack started shaking, he knew what was coming up, and every fiber of his being wanted to fight against it. He walked forward and took the rag and bucket from her, almost screaming as his misused hands protested violently.  
  
"Go clean the bathroom, boy," she told him.  
  
With jerky steps, Jon forced himself to walk to the small, windowless bathroom. He could hear her pull something else out of the closet, and follow him. He walked silently into the bathroom. She stopped at the door.  
  
She unscrewed the plastic lid of the bottle, then upended it into the bucket. The small space was instantly filled with the noxious fumes of an industrial strength cleaner. She smiled at him again, then shut the door. He could hear the lock clicking home.  
  
The fumes kept rising, and Jon forced down his gag reflex. Forced himself to kneel and dip the rag into the bucket, wincing as the harsh chemical came in contact with his skin, but doggedly he scrubbed the floor. Then the toilet. Then the sink and the shower. He scrubbed every surface available to scrub, until everything in the small, airless, room shown and reflected the light. Only then did he begin to bang on the door.  
  
After several minutes, his mother opened the door, and gazed approvingly at his work. She didn't say a word. Just walked away, leaving the door open behind her. Jon gratefully inhaled the oxygen in the hallway, lying on his back, staring at the ceiling.  
  
Finally, he forced himself to get up and pick up the rag and bucket. He was going to clean and put them away. Then, and only then, he would go back up to his room, tend his hands with the first aid kit he kept stashed in a shoe box in the back of his closet, and fall back to sleep. Hopefully.  
  
* * *  
  
Jack sat high up in a tree, his pack hanging from one of the lower branches, staring at the sunrise. First, pale light. Then red tinges. The clouds were edged in blood. Finally, the sun rose above the horizon. A bright orange fiery ball, beaming light, and life, and death, down on the unsuspecting earth.  
  
Another day had begun.  
  
* * *  
  
Daniel was worried. Jack had left the mountain silently. The anger and pain coming off of him in waves. The archaeologist had tried calling him, after giving him enough time to get home, but there had been no answer. He'd left a brief message. When there had been no reply several hours later, he'd called again, and left another, brief, message. When dawn rolled around, and still no word, he tried his cell phone. The nice mechanized voice had informed him that 'The cellular phone you are trying to reach has been turned off. Please leave a message.'  
  
Yep. No doubt about it. Daniel was worried.  
  
His mind flashed back to the scene, not two days before. Jack, nailed to the cross, nailed, covered in his own blood. Beaten almost beyond recognition. And still, miraculously, alive. Still alive. But at what price?  
  
Even more surprising than the torture, was when the torturers had healed him. Using a device very much like those of the Goa'uld, and yet utterly and completely alien. They had healed his body, more than healed his body, according to the Doctor. Janet had told them that they'd not only healed the wounds they had inflicted, but several that they hadn't, including his knee.  
  
Daniel was supposed to be the cultural expert, but for the life of him, he couldn't figure it out. They'd gone through the stargate two and a half weeks ago, met with the natives, everything was going smoothly. Then, all of a sudden, Jack had disappeared. The rest of SG-1, and every available personnel at the SGC, had searched for him for two weeks. They'd thought he was dead. Even Daniel was starting to face up to the fact that he may never see his friend again.  
  
Then, all of a sudden, the Sa-ren, the tribal shaman, had called them to the temple. That was where they'd found Jack. And he didn't know why. No one knew why, except those who had done it to him, and Jack himself. But Jack hadn't talked, and neither had the natives. Despite much 'encouragement' on the part of Major Ferretti.  
  
"Where the hell are you, Jack?" Daniel asked the walls of his empty office. As expected, he received no answer.  
  
Two:  
  
Jon stared into the mirror. He was sixteen years old. Today. He should feel different. He should look different. Everything should change. The only thing that had changed was that Carl had taken him to get his driver's license. Sixteen years old. Why didn't he feel any different?  
  
Everyone at school had made such a big deal about their sixteenth birthdays. His friends had asked what he was doing. Wondering if he was going to throw a party. He'd been to several of his classmate's parties. He told them that he was doing something with his family. The same thing he'd told them every year, for as long as they'd known him. It wasn't, exactly, a lie. He was doing something with his family. Nothing.  
  
Lucy had given him a Swiss army pocketknife that morning, before either of the adults were up. Molly had drawn him a picture, very colorful, which she had also given him before the grown-ups had woken up. The knife he'd slipped into his pocket, the picture he'd placed carefully in the wooden box he kept hidden under a loose floorboard under his bed.  
  
If Laura or Carl O'Neill knew that their only 'son' was celebrating his birthday, they would have beaten him badly enough to kill. Or almost kill. They'd done it once before. Once had been enough to send the message. Jonathan's birthday was not a joyous occasion. It was the anniversary of something terrible, horrible, painful, and black. Like the attack on Pearl Harbor. The only day worse than his birthday, as far as his parents were concerned, was the day he'd been conceived.  
  
He'd turned away from the mirror, and was about to pick up the book he was supposed to read for English, when his bedroom door was flung open. He stared up at Carl. The large, angry man, stood there staring down at him. He radiated heat, like a magnet radiated force. You couldn't see it, you couldn't touch it, but you could feel it, and it was strong enough to cause a hell of a lot of damage.  
  
Jon managed to turn his mind off a split second before Carl grabbed him, and proceeded to drag him out of the room and down the stairs. From the back of his mind, where he sat quietly, watching what was happening to him, he knew that he was in pain, that he would be bruised, at the very least. More than likely, he would have a broken bone or two by the time the day was done. From where he was sitting in the back of his mind, he didn't care.  
  
He knew what was going to happen, but he didn't know why. In all probability, Carl didn't have any reason, other than the fact that it was his birthday. He was drug down the stairs, then thrown through an open doorway, he fell down the steps to the basement, into pitch blackness. The door slammed shut behind him, the lock clicking.  
  
Jon forced himself to hands and knees, taking an inventory. Battered, bruised, bloody, concussed, but no broken bones. Small favors. He smiled, in the dark, then slowly crawled to the wall. He worked his way, by feel and by memory, to the corner farthest away from the door, and the stairs. He huddled in on himself, arms wrapped around his knees, knocking the back of his head against the wall.  
  
If all they did was lock him down here for a day or two, he would count himself lucky. Last year they'd been forced to take him to the emergency room. That spoke volumes for how badly he'd been injured. They'd told the doctors that he'd been hit by a car. Hit and run. It was the only way to explain that much damage.  
  
The doctor had questioned him anyway, once he was conscious. So had a nice lady in a brown skirt suit. He'd collaborated his parent's story. To do anything else was to flirt with disaster.  
  
He didn't know how long he'd been down there. An hour, five hours, maybe even a day, time passed strangely when he was shut in the basement, when the door opened, something was placed on the first step, and the door was closed again. Jon didn't have a clue what was happening. He didn't have to wait long to find out.  
  
The small enclosed space was filled with music. Very, very, very, painfully, loud music. So loud he thought his head would explode. So loud that it took him an entire track to realize what it was, Beethoven. His favorite composer. In fact, his favorite collection.  
  
He knew what it was, it was his stereo, playing one of his tapes, at top volume. He cowered in the corner, arms pressed over his ears, though it didn't help, for only God knew how long. He didn't even think of crawling over and turning it off. For one, he would have to go up the steep and treacherous stairs in the pitch black. Two, he'd have to get closer to the source of the noise, he could no longer think of this torture as music. Three, they would hear it. Or rather not hear it. And things could only get worse from there. At the moment he couldn't figure out how things could get worse, but he knew they could.  
  
He didn't realize he'd been screaming until the pain in his throat alerted him. He'd screamed his throat raw. The tape finally ran out, and in the deafening silence, he heard the lock click open. But the door remained shut, and the light remained off. He knew what they wanted. They wanted him to crawl up the stairs in the dark.  
  
He made his way up slowly, painfully, carefully, flinching at every sound. His head pounded, his throat hurt, his body in general was very unhappy. He forced himself up the stairs. He forced himself to stand in front of the door, in the pitch black, and reached for the handle, his hand finding it easily, well acquainted with its location. He opened the door onto a brightly lit living room, sunlight shining through the windows. He closed his eyes and leaned against the door frame, allowing them to adjust.  
  
Finally, he opened them again. The room was empty. He searched the house top to bottom. It was empty, no one was home. He collapsed on his bed, half in exhaustion, half in relief, and stared at the ceiling above him. They hadn't come back by the time the sun was setting, and he was hungry. But he knew better than to try and fix food for himself. So he lay there, waiting.  
  
Slowly, a thought began to form in the back of his mind. 'What the fuck are you doing, putting up with this?' It was a question he'd asked himself a thousand and one times.  
  
He gave his usual answer. 'Because you deserve it.'  
  
'What the hell did I ever do to them?'  
  
'You were born.'  
  
'Not my fault.'  
  
'Yes, it is.'  
  
'Why?'  
  
He didn't have an answer for that. 'Because they say so.'  
  
'Screw them. I'm leaving.'  
  
The next thing Jon knew, he was standing in his doorway, his duffel slung over one shoulder holding, he knew, several changes of clothes and the box from beneath his bed. He had no idea how he'd gotten there, but he knew what he intended to do. He'd found himself in the process of running away several times before. Once he'd been in the middle of the bus station, waiting in line to buy a ticket with money he'd stolen from Carl.  
  
Jon dropped the bag and leaned against the door frame. 'I can't.'  
  
'Why the hell not?'  
  
'I can't!'  
  
Silence. 'Well, I can. I'm not gonna let you get us killed. I'm not gonna let you let them do this. It's either walk out the door, or kill them. Your choice, Johnny-boy.'  
  
"No, no, no, no, no," Jon muttered, shaking his head from side to side.  
  
'Stay or go?'  
  
Silence.  
  
'Go.'  
  
The next thing Jonathan O'Neill knew, he was sitting in a window seat on a bus, heading to San Francisco, California, according to the ticket in his hand, next to a chatty old woman who was in the process of telling him about her grandson, who he reminded her of.  
  
"Yes, Jack, you look just like my Eric when he was your age," she said.  
  
"What did you call me?" he asked, confused.  
  
"Jack, are you all right?" the little old woman looked concerned. He shook his head, and smiled.  
  
"Yes, ma'am, I'm fine, my hearing's just a little off."  
  
'Jack?'  
  
'Ye gotta problem with that?'  
  
'No.'  
  
He supposed that he could live with 'Jack.' He settled back into the seat, and listened to Ms. Harshaw regale him with tales of her eldest son, Eric.  
  
He was actually doing it. He'd already done it. He was free.  
  
Sixteen felt different after all.  
  
* * *  
  
Jack made camp next to a stream he found. He cleaned himself up as much as he was able, caught a couple fish, and boiled some water. Once, reasonably, clean and fed, he settled down on his sleeping bag next to the fire, staring out at the dark wilderness. You could breath out here, not like the cities, with all of their pollution and noise. It was quiet.  
  
* * *  
  
Teal'c frowned. He'd been engaged in Kel-no-reem, communing with his larval Goa'uld, but had been forced to emerge from the trance early. His worries for his friend, Colonel O'Neill, were weighing heavy on his mind.  
  
Daniel Jackson had spoken to him earlier that day, voicing his concerns about their CO. He had also spoken to General Hammond, who had apparently reassured him that if Jack didn't make contact by the next day, he would send someone to 'check it out.'  
  
The large Jaffa did not understand why his friend and comrade in arms was avoiding them. In the past, after suffering such injuries, the strange Tau'ri had made a point of spending time with his team, proving to them (and himself) that he was in fact 'all right, for cryin' out loud!'  
  
This deviation from O'Neill's usual behavior pattern was, disturbing, to the Jaffa. It led him to believe that perhaps there was something more to the Colonel's torture than had been physically apparent.  
  
With cat-like grace, Teal'c stood and exited his room. He would speak with Daniel Jackson. Of all of them, the archaeologist had the most experience with Jack O'Neill, perhaps he would be able to shed light on the mystery. If not, perhaps they could depart and visit the Colonel in his house.  
  
Three:  
  
Jack stood with the other teens, huddled around the fire they'd started in a trash can, trying to convince himself that he was warm, even though every nerve in his body was screaming otherwise. Charlie grinned at him from across the flames.  
  
"Regular ole x-mas for us, heh?" he asked, his voice cheerful. Charlie was sixteen years old, two years younger than his eighteen. He seemed younger, somehow.  
  
He'd been a foster kid, the kind that got bounced around a lot. Every 'home' had abused him in some way. The last had been the last straw. He'd never actually said what had been done to him in the last 'home,' but he didn't have to. It had been pretty apparent to Jack, and in two years on the street, he'd come to trust his intuition. Something about Charlie had made him want to protect him.  
  
Maybe it was his baby fine white-blonde hair. Maybe it was the pain he saw in his eyes, even though he worked so very hard at hiding it. Maybe it was just that he'd been lonely. Whatever it was, he'd taken the younger boy under his wing. Taught him how to survive on the streets. What dumpsters were good for food. What areas to avoid at night. What areas to avoid during the day. What people to stay the fuck away from.  
  
For his part, Charlie was Charlie. Ever the optimist, constantly making bad jokes. Talking about hockey this or hockey that twenty-four seven. Jack knew more than he'd ever wanted to about the game of hockey, thanks to the young man.  
  
But Charlie wasn't stupid. He'd been with Jack for almost three months. He'd watched the older boy go from 'slightly-cynical-big-brother' to not so slightly rage filled homicidal berserker, in a split second. He knew that he was holding a tiger by the tail, but Jack had never done anything to hurt him, and as long as that was the case he would ignore the personality shifts, the way he would stare off into empty space for hours on end, and the way he would have entire conversations with thin air, when he thought no one was listening. His older friend might be crazy, but he was still his friend.  
  
Jack smiled back, slightly, but continued to stare down at the flames. They were pretty, and as long as he stared at them, and busied his mind with thinking himself warm, then maybe he wouldn't have to remember. Maybe.  
  
"Excuse me?" someone asked tentatively, Jack jerked his head up to stare at the intruder, and intruder she was. Dressed in a clean, warm coat, buttoned against the chill. Leather gloves, a hat and a scarf. She didn't belong.  
  
Jack, himself, was wearing two pairs of much mended pants, old boots held together with duct-tape and two sizes too big, and an over-large flannel jacket that did little to keep out the chill. Compared to him and his friends, this woman looked Goddamned opulent. Speaking of 'God,' she was holding a bible.  
  
"Whaddyawant?" Jack asked crossly, putting all of the anger and hate in him into his voice. She winced, but took a step closer.  
  
"There's a shelter, just a couple blocks away, in the Church of the Holy Heart," she began the familiar litany. Jack snorted, and turned back to the fire. One or two of the others looked interested, and followed her when she left. Charlie looked up at him, his young eyes curious as to what he intended to do.  
  
'Damn.' He hated churches, and he hated handouts. But it was cold, and it would only get colder, and he had Charlie, not just himself to think of.  
  
'Why the fuck not? 'S not like it costs ya anything.'  
  
He motioned Charlie to follow him, and they jogged to catch up to the group. Before they entered the church, he pulled the younger boy aside. "Don't give 'em your real name, say you're sixteen. If they ask about your parents say that yer pop's in the hospital, and yer mom skipped."  
  
Charlie grinned. "Not so far from th' truth, that," he said cheerily, and they made their way into the church.  
  
The girl who'd come out and rounded them up had been about Jack's age, the people just inside the door were adults. Jack was willing to bet that at least one of them was a cop, or a social worker. Both were equally bad, as far as he was concerned.  
  
He smiled at them, and answered their questions. The nice lady who asked him was wearing a brown knit sweater and a pair of acid wash jeans, and she wrote down everything he said.  
  
"Name?"  
  
"Jack." She waited. "Jack O'conner." She wrote it down.  
  
"Age?"  
  
"18," it wasn't a lie, anymore. He'd been 18 for two years. He'd been 'Jack O'conner' for three months.  
  
"Family?"  
  
"None."  
  
She didn't believe him. They never believed him. That didn't stop him from lying. He was 18. Technically, he was an adult. His parents couldn't do anything to him anymore. But he wasn't stupid.  
  
Jack knew that it was normal to just disappear from himself for hours at a time, only to wake and find that he'd done this or that. He knew that ordinary people did not have voices in the back of their minds, urging them to take out their anger and frustration and pain on the nearest passers-by. He knew that if they could prove he was crazy, they could get control of him again. They could put him away in one of the mental institutions so many others on the streets spoke of. They could lock him up in the basement for the rest of his life. He was never going back. He'd die, before he went back.  
  
The pious church volunteers led them into the basement, where they were fed, given blankets, and left to sleep on very uncomfortable army cots. But it was warm, and it was dry, and they'd gotten a good meal. No one was going to complain, not even the voice in the back of his mind.  
  
He and Charlie fell asleep in adjacent cots. Jack had been very quick, and gotten a cot in a corner. He liked to have his back to a wall, to make sure no one could get behind him.  
  
He awoke in the middle of the night. He'd become a very light sleeper in the last two years. He lay still, listening to the sounds of the room. The rhythmic breathing of those asleep. Charlie's breathing was a discordant counter note, almost panicked, with an equally discordant, but totally different, note on top of it.  
  
It was pitch black. He couldn't see shit. But he had very good hearing, and he tackled the man on top of Charlie dead on. They wrestled on the ground, and when he felt a blade cut his fore-arm, he realized that the man he was attacking had a knife.  
  
The sound of their fighting had awakened the others, and someone turned on the light. Jack was pinned down by a middle aged balding man, who leered at him in the light, his fly open and his dick hanging out, fully erect. Jack glanced back at Charlie, one of the other kids was helping him pull his pants back up, he was shaking so hard he couldn't do it himself. That was all he needed to see.  
  
Jack slipped away to the place he went when he wasn't there, but this time he saw everything, and he wanted to. He flipped the man off of him and onto his back, then rolled and straddled him, forcing a knee into his groin. At the same time he hauled off and punched him. And he didn't stop. Somehow the man got the knife up, Jack's body reacted, slamming the arm down and deftly breaking the wrist. Without thinking, he picked up the knife.  
  
That's when the other's jumped on him, trying to drag him off. But he wasn't there, and he couldn't feel what was being done to his body. He had the knife in his hand, and he had all the time in the universe to decide what to do with it.  
  
'Kill him,' the voice was very matter of fact, and he agreed with it. 'Slit his goddamned throat.' Jack stared at the flesh in question. Pale and thick, and begging to be cut open. He was seeing red, but he wanted to see blood. Lots of it.  
  
He used the knife, and then someone hit him over the head with something hard, and he really did go away.  
  
He awoke in a hospital, handcuffed to the side rails, needles sticking out of him like they thought he was a pin-cushion. He yanked his arms, but all that succeeded in doing was making the IV's hurt more. He yanked anyway, welcoming the pain. Pain was constant and reliable. The only thing he could count on.  
  
Apparently all of his thrashing set off some alarms, because several nurses and orderlies rushed into the room. Even chained to the bed, Jack gave them a fight. Finally one nurse got to his IV and injected something into it, and suddenly, Jack couldn't move. His body felt like it'd been replaced with lead. Then he went away again.  
  
When he woke up the second time, he wasn't just chained to the guard rail, he was strapped to the bed. A strap across his shoulders, another over his arms and waist. Another over his thighs, and then another securing his ankles. He knew it was a moot point, but he struggled anywise.  
  
"If you don't stop that, they're going to put you under again," said a voice from out of his very limited field of sight.  
  
"Who the fuck are you?" he demanded of the man who stepped into view. He smiled, and pulled a badge out of an inner-pocket of his jacket.  
  
"Detective Mason, I'm assigned to your case."  
  
Jack let his head fall back to the uncomfortable hospital pillow. "Fuck," he muttered, more to himself and the voice in his head than to the detective. "Did we kill him?" he asked, not noticing his use of the plural.  
  
Detective Mason did notice it, and made a mental note to get the kid a psych evaluation. "Almost," the detective answered.  
  
Jack closed his eyes. He didn't know whether he was relieved or pissed. He finally realized that it was both. He was relieved that he wouldn't be charged with murder. The other one, though, was very, very, pissed. And was making it very known.  
  
'Mother fucker deserves to die, should've cut his dick off. Should've gutted the son of a bitch.'  
  
Jack didn't realize that he was muttering the words aloud, Detective Mason raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment, letting the young man rant under his breath. Finally he turned his hazel eyes back to the cop.  
  
"Who the fuck was he?" he asked. Jack knew the man wasn't one of the homeless. That shelter only housed kids, and he knew that the only reason they'd let him in was because he looked younger than 18, and he had Charlie with him. Fuck, Charlie.  
  
"Where's Charlie?" he demanded. His voice changed from cold rage to brotherly concern in less than a breath. Detective Mason took a step back. He didn't know what the hell he was dealing with, here, but it was obvious that the kid had problems. Frankly, he was beginning to wonder why the boy wasn't already in a facility.  
  
"He was a volunteer at the Church, he's in another hospital. You succeeded in slitting his throat, you just didn't get deep enough."  
  
A look of relief passed over Jack's face, followed quickly by rage. He remained silent this time, but Mason got the distinct feeling that he was having another rant session about how he should have killed the man.  
  
Finally he turned his eyes back to the detective. "I assume that 'Charlie' is the name of the young man you went to the shelter with. The boy nodded, once, sharply. Mason took a deep breath, he really didn't know if he should tell the kid this, especially not in light of the, problems, he seemed to have. But something about the way he was staring at him convinced him to tell him. The boy wanted the truth, not some fairy tale lie.  
  
"The young man in question was found yesterday, dead. In an apparent suicide."  
  
The kid didn't react, he didn't even blink. Mason wasn't even certain that he was breathing. He lay there, as still as a statue, not responding. The detective would have said he was dead, were it not for the heart monitor telling him otherwise. He stayed like that for a good forty seven minutes. Mason had given up standing and gone back to his chair. The uncomfortable piece of hospital plastic he'd been practically glued to for the past four days, waiting for his suspect to wake up.  
  
He didn't know what it was about the kid. But even though he knew he was a grade A psycho, there was something about him that called out to him. He shook his head, realizing that the boy was staring at him again.  
  
"What's gonna happen to him?" he asked. Mason was confused. He didn't know if the boy was referring to himself in the third person, or his dead friend. It must have shown on his face, because he elaborated. "What's gonna happen to Charlie?"  
  
"He'll be buried in potter's field, unless someone comes forward to claim the body," Mason answered. The boy blinked, then went back to staring at the ceiling.  
  
"You told the people at the church that your name was 'Jack O'conner,' is that your real name?" the detective asked after several minutes of silence. The boy didn't respond. "You there, son."  
  
"My name's Jack," he said, his voice sounded strange, almost as if it were dead, not belonging to a living thing at all.  
  
"Last name?"  
  
No answer.  
  
"Son?"  
  
"My name's Jack," he said again. His voice was no louder, no more forceful. It was still that strange, dead, tone.  
  
"Alright, Jack, do you have any family?"  
  
He winced, a pained look passing over his face, quickly replaced by the emptiness of a moment before. That glimpse was enough to tell Det. Mason that there were some bad memories attached to those people.  
  
"Jack?"  
  
"I'm 18, I don't want you to call them."  
  
"Don't you think they have a right to know?"  
  
Jack thought about that. Maybe his sisters had a right to know, but Lucy would probably be moved out by now, and he had no idea of how to get a hold of her, and Molly, Molly would only be, what, twelve? He wasn't going to bring her into it, anyway, he couldn't bring her into it without bring his parents into it, and he wasn't going to do that.  
  
He turned and stared Detective Mason in the eye. "No," he answered simply, quietly, calmly even. Then he turned back to the ceiling and resumed staring at it.  
  
The detective asked several more questions, but he ignored them. They weren't important, they weren't important.  
  
* * *  
  
Jack shook his head, dispelling the nightmare he'd woken from.  
  
'NO, not a nightmare,' he forced himself to admit to himself. 'A memory.'  
  
He'd had another flash-back. Lord knew he had enough material in his subconscious for it. He'd been back on the streets, in a fight he'd lost. A fight between himself and a gang of homeless teens hell-bent on getting what little he'd had. He had refused to give it up, and for his trouble had been beaten to within an inch of his life. They'd taken his stuff when they were done. Including the knife Lucy had given him.  
  
Lucy, he hadn't thought of her in years. Since his divorce, actually. During his marriage to Sarah he'd rebuilt relationships with both of his sisters, but after his son's, death, and his divorce, he'd let the relationships fall apart again. After Charlie's death, nothing seemed to matter anymore. Nothing and no one.  
  
Maybe it was time he called her.  
  
* * *  
  
Sam Carter stood in the middle of Jack's living room, looking around at the sparse area. A couch, a coffee table, a Lazy-boy, and the entertainment center. The only personal touches were the hockey memorabilia. The only photos were of SG-1 or Cassie and Janet. There was one other photo, she knew, on his bedside table. A framed picture of Jack, his ex-wife Sarah, and their son, Charlie. There was no childhood memorabilia. No pictures of him as a young man. As far as his house was concerned, he started existence with that photo. Disappeared, and didn't start existing again until the formation of SG-1.  
  
She shook her head. Jack wasn't here. Hadn't been here, from all indications, since before their last mission. The one he almost hadn't come back from. She banished the mental imagery from her mind with a firm command. Jack had, for all intents and purposes, disappeared from the face of the planet. And everyone was worried about him.  
  
The General had assured them that he would use all of the resources at his disposal to track down their errant Colonel. None of them were saying the obvious. Jack might not want to be found. And if he didn't want to be found no force, in heaven or hell, was going to bring him home.  
  
The major sighed, and rubbed her eyes in frustration. She was worried about her CO, and friend. So was Daniel, so was Teal'c. So was the General and everyone else at the SGC. 'Jack, come the fuck home,' she thought silently, staring despondently at a framed photo of the four members of SG-1. They were standing around Jack's picnic table, in the backyard, in the middle of a Bar-B-Q. Cassie had somehow gotten a hold of a camera, and had gotten a shot of the four of them tackling each other. She could still remember what they'd been play-fighting over.  
  
Jack had insisted that they have American beer. Daniel had brought imported. And no one wanted to leave to get more. They'd ended up drinking blue kool aid, at Cassie's suggestion.  
  
Four:  
  
"Jonathan O'Neill, you are hereby sentenced to five years in the state penitentiary," the Judge said. Jack was impassive. He hadn't bothered to plead innocent, there had been way too many witnesses. His lawyer had wanted to enter an insanity plea, but Jack had refused.  
  
He glanced at his public defender. Nathan 'call me Nate' Adkins, was already packing up his brief case. He had other cases to work on. Life went on.  
  
Detective Mason had apparently spoken to the judge on his behalf, and that was a surprise. Jack suspected that he had the detective to thank for the five year sentence. He could very well have ended up with 20 to 30.  
  
The hospital had cleaned him up, then he'd been sent to the county jail, after a thorough psych evaluation. Jack had smiled and given all the answers he knew he was supposed to give. The shrink had been hurried and not very interested. Even if he hadn't been convinced, he signed the papers stating Jack to be of sound mind.  
  
Jail. That had not been fun, to say the least. He was 18, it was jail, not juvie. The other inmates had leered, cat-called, made fun of, and in one, and only one, case attempted to beat him up. Jack had fought the older, slower, man off easily. Two years on the streets taught you how to fight dirt. Really dirty. He'd been thrown in solitary for the fight. The other inmate was still in the infirmary when he'd left that morning.  
  
Two guards walked up and took hold of his arms. He stood, and didn't resist. They led him out of the courthouse and into the back of the paddy- wagon. There were already three others in there, after he'd been seated and chained to the floor, four more were brought in. They were heading for the processing center, to be dealt out to the various penitentiaries where they would serve their sentences.  
  
Jack was staring at the wall, but he wasn't home. The other inmates were streetwise enough to leave him alone. This young man with the jail house haircut and dark, empty eyes, radiated danger. He might as well have had a neon sign glowing over his head.  
  
Dangerous!  
  
(do not approach)  
  
When Jack came back, he found himself standing in a line, heading towards barred doors. A pile of clothes were shoved into his arms, and then he was shoved through the doors. The processing center was set up like the jail, the prisoners were assigned to different quads, large cement rooms lined with uncomfortable bunks, with a few tables and chairs bolted to the floor, and the bathroom open for all to see.  
  
The guards put him in a mostly empty quad. There were only ten other inmates, and all of them looked to be about his age. Even if he was technically an adult, apparently the administration felt the need to protect him from the older inmates. A clean, well manicured young man came up to him, and led him to an empty bunk. Jack dropped his bundle of clothes and bedding down on the paper thin mattress, then sat down himself, and proceeded to stare at nothing.  
  
Unfortunately, his quad-mates did not have the street smarts of the older convicts in the paddy wagon, they didn't see the brightly glaring neon sign. One after another, they tried to talk to him. One after another, he ignored them.  
  
Until a large, red haired, mountain walked up. "What's wrong with you, boy? You think you better'n us?" the Goliath demanded. His voice was hoarse, still dealing with hormones. Jack ignored him. He wasn't home. He was someplace nice and dark and quiet.  
  
The jolly red giant reached out a large hand and shook him. That was a mistake. Jack looked up at the larger youth, but it wasn't Jack who looked out from behind the eyes. Jack was hiding in the back of his mind, and he wasn't coming out, and he didn't give a damn what the others did. He grinned. Mt. Everest blinked, and took a step back, involuntary reaction.  
  
Jack stood, and advanced on the larger boy. The red head kept backing away, and the rest of the quad had fallen quiet, the other eight boys finally realizing that there was something very dangerous in their midst. Jack continued to advance, the boy continued to back away, Jack continued to smile.  
  
He was really enjoying the fear he was seeing on the other kid's face. He could almost smell it, it was so thick. He was thinking about how much fun it would be to rip his throat out, he'd always wondered exactly how much force was required to rip out a person's throat. He was fairly confident that he could do it, but he wouldn't know until he tried.  
  
Apparently his train of thought was echoed on his face, because one of the kids started screaming for the guard.  
  
Jack came back. He blinked for a minute, readjusting to the change in location. He'd long since become accustomed to 'waking up' in strange places. Usually under strange circumstances. This time was no different. The large red headed boy who he'd been introduced to earlier, he couldn't remember his name, was cowering against the bars in front of him. He realized that he was grinning, and stopped. The boy didn't look any more relieved.  
  
A different kid was standing at the bars, talking to a guard.  
  
"I swear, that man's crazy. He's a psycho, a nut job, grade A insane, mister. You gotta get him outta here!"  
  
The guard turned to stare at him. Jack just stood there, impassively, not meeting the older man's eyes. Then the guard turned to look at red-head, who had apparently realized that he was in no immediate danger and had stopped cowering. Jack stayed very still, and looked very not-dangerous. It wasn't hard.  
  
With his dark blond hair, pale skin, and gaunt features, he didn't look dangerous at all. At least, not until one of the others came out. He smiled at the guard, the guard smiled back. He was just a kid, a nice, un- dangerous, kid. Never mind the fact that he was in here because he'd almost killed a man. He was locked up, and seemed to have seen the error of his ways. He would serve his time and return to society a productive, reformed, citizen.  
  
Right.  
  
"Doesn't look that dangerous to me," the guard said, nodding to Jack, then walking away. The other inmates turned to look at him, Jack looked impassively back, meeting the eyes of anyone who would look at his, he stared them all down. He'd found that with people, like dogs, staring was a contest of wills, and a way to establish domination. He didn't stare at the guards, because the guards were just like cops, only they could hurt him more. But as far as the others in his quad went, he was dominant. Period.  
  
For the rest of his two week stay in the processing center, the inmates left him alone. He was roughed up a bit by one of the guards, a sadistic son of a bitch named 'Greyson,' but other than that, he had no problems.  
  
He was sent to the Fulton Penitentiary.  
  
* * *  
  
Jack sat next to the empty fire pit. It was warm enough in daylight that he didn't need it. He knew that his friends and colleagues would be worried, but he couldn't bring himself to care enough to do something about it. Hell, he'd been gone almost a week, in all probability they'd already searched his house and found out he'd never gone home. For all he knew, they might even have found his truck, abandoned on the side of the road.  
  
Daniel was probably having fits. But he just couldn't bring himself to go back. Not yet. He still had things to figure out. He still had things to do.  
  
* * *  
  
Daniel was, in fact, having fits. He hadn't slept for almost 72 hours. The archaeologist was running on extra strong black coffee, adrenaline, and fear for his friend. The colonel's truck had been found, empty and abandoned, on the side of a little used road through the mountains, almost across the border and into another state!  
  
They didn't know if Jack had left willingly, or if he'd been taken, or where he was, or if he was even alive. Yeah, Daniel was definitely having fits, and he wasn't the only one.  
  
The General had called up a couple favors, and even now had members of the National Guard sweeping the woods. But the trees were thick, and Jack was experienced at disappearing. There was a large area to cover, and very little possibility of finding him.  
  
The civilian sighed, stopped pacing his office, and headed out into the hall. He would go to the commissary, get a large cup of black coffee, and resume worrying. There wasn't much else he could do.  
  
Five:  
  
Jack stared across the table at the man sitting there. He was dressed in a military uniform, Air force, and was patiently sitting there, watching him as he was hand cuffed to the cold, hard, very uncomfortable, metal chair.  
  
He'd been in Fulton for almost a year. His 19th birthday had come and gone. In that time he'd been in seven major fights, and thrown in solitary for all but one of them. The third one had sent him to the infirmary for a week and a half. He'd come out with a broken arm in a sling.  
  
In all of that time, he had had two visitors. His sister, Lucy, had visited him twice. Once for Christmas and once for his birthday. The other visitor had been Father Gregory, his childhood friend. His sister had cried, his priest had prayed. This man in the air force uniform was neither his sister or his priest. And he had two dangerous looking men in similar uniforms standing behind him.  
  
"Wha'dyawant?" Jack asked. He didn't like authority figures. The military definitely counted as authority figures.  
  
"We would like to talk to you, Mr. O'Neill."  
  
"Call me Jack."  
  
"Mr. O'Neill, we are here to offer you an, alternative, to your present incarceration."  
  
"Oh, yeah, right." He didn't sound enthused. He knew it. He'd done it on purpose.  
  
"Do you honestly want to spend the next four years of your life in this, facility?" the stranger asked. Jack snorted.  
  
"Of course I don't, but I don't fancy spending the next four years of my life salutin' and saying 'Sir' this and 'sir' that. Thank you very much."  
  
"You have an opportunity to serve your country, Mr. O'Neill."  
  
"No thanks, it's my country that's fucked me over. What the hell you want with me anyway?" The man smiled, a small, secret, smile.  
  
"Let us say that you have certain, talents, which would be of tremendous use to your country."  
  
Jack thought about that, and the others joined in the conversation.  
  
'Get outta prison free card.'  
  
'Take it.'  
  
'Leave it.'  
  
'Hit him, hit him, hit him.' Jack ignored the last voice, mainly because the two men standing behind his visitor were glaring menacingly down at him.  
  
'We can take four more years of this, we could get killed if we go with that shit.'  
  
'We could get shived in the cafeteria, or the yard.'  
  
'We could piss a guard off.'  
  
'Damned if ya do, damned if ya don't.'  
  
'At least you could see trees, mountains, grass. Other people.'  
  
'Women?'  
  
'Who gives a fuck.'  
  
'Freedom, man, now hurry up and decide, he's getting antsy.'  
  
Jack had remained silent, staring at the wall, carrying on his internal discussion, for over twenty minutes. In that time, the officer sitting across from him had tried numerous methods of regaining his attention. He'd finally given up when Jack blinked and looked back at him.  
  
"What do I have to do?" he asked. The officer smiled.  
  
"We have some forms for you to fill out," he said, passing said forms over the top of the table. "Then we'll have the paperwork processed, and have you moved to the nearest training facility.  
  
* * *  
  
Jack ran tired fingers through his wet hair, wringing the stream water out of it as best he could. He had had yet another sleepless night. He'd come out here to get his shit together, and all he was doing was falling apart. He shook his head, then glanced down at his reflection in the water.  
  
His reflection winked at him, and then saluted.  
  
"What the hell!" Jack dove backwards. When he crawled back to the water's edge, his reflection was just that, a reflection.  
  
He shook his head. 'How the fuck did you get out?'  
  
'How the fuck do you think?'  
  
'What do you want?'  
  
'Same thing as ever, Jacky-boy.'  
  
'What's that?'  
  
'You know.'  
  
And the truth was, he did know.  
  
* * *  
  
"God Dammit!" Daniel lashed out and hit the wall. He stood there, staring at his fist, then pulled it away and looked at the dent he'd put in his living room. "Damnit!" he muttered, quieter.  
  
Two weeks. Two weeks with no word, no sign, no clue. But he refused to believe that his friend was dead. Refused to even accept the rumors running rampant through the mountain. That maybe Jack had taken off and killed himself, and the only thing the search and rescue team could do was bring home his body for a proper burial.  
  
Jack O'Neill would not kill himself. He may sacrifice himself, but he wouldn't kill himself. He hadn't been able to do it all those years ago, after his son had died, so he'd taken every suicide mission he could get, and still survived. No, if Jack had wanted to die, he would have stayed at the mountain, waiting for a chance to give his life to the cause.  
  
He wouldn't take off into the wilderness and just let himself die.  
  
He wouldn't.  
  
Would he?  
  
* * *  
  
'What the hell are you doin' out here, Jack?'  
  
'Looking for myself.'  
  
'Fancy that. Looks like ya found us.'  
  
"Looks like."  
  
Six:  
  
Jack lay still, under the dead body of his friend, and didn't even breath. Willing the Iraqi soldiers to leave him for dead. Mike's body was shoved off of him, and he lay completely still. It wasn't enough.  
  
"This one's alive!" the soldier shouted to his comrades, in Arabic. Jack opened his eyes and glared up at the man. Christ, he was just a kid, younger even than Jack's 21 years. Christ. He'd been shot in the shoulder, then knocked out by a grenade. He'd woken up under his friend's dead body, covered in his blood and viscera. Even so, he was just a kid. Jack shut that part of himself off.  
  
He pulled his knife free, and lunged upwards, shoving the blade through the kids ribs, straight for the heart. The kid stared down at him, a look of shock on his face, and fell to the already blood-soaked ground. Jack lunged for the gun, but didn't make it. He was hit on the back of the head, hard, by what he would later assume had been a gun butt.  
  
He came too in the back of a truck, arms tied, tight and awkward, behind his back, pulling on the still bleeding bullet wound. God, it hurt. He pushed the pain out of his mind, let some other part of himself deal with it, and took in what he could see of his situation.  
  
He was hog-tied in the back of a truck in enemy territory, in enemy hands. He'd been left for dead by his own unit, his own CO. He pushed the bitterness out of his mind too, no time for it. They thought he was dead, there wouldn't be any rescue mounted to save him. Even if they'd known he was alive, there probably wouldn't have been a rescue attempted. This hadn't, exactly, been a sanctioned op they'd been on.  
  
The truck stopped. Two soldiers came around and hauled him out of the truck, not bothering to be too gentle about it, either. He grunted in pain, but he wouldn't scream. Wouldn't give the bastards the pleasure. He'd survived a lot worse than cuts and bruises in his time, he would by god survive this. He would get back to Sarah, and Charlie. And that was that.  
  
They dragged him across hard packed dirt, he forced himself to look up, they were in a compound, and he was being dragged towards a low building, the same color as the sand. The door was an empty black maw, waiting to eat him.  
  
It was cooler inside the building. Small favors. His two guards dragged him down a hallway, then into a room. They tied him to a chair, hands behind the back, feet off the floor, tied to the legs. To keep him off balance, out of touch. It was an old trick.  
  
The guards left. He didn't know how much later, but a man arrived. He was dressed in desert fatigues, hair trimmed short. Ever present beard.  
  
"Who are you," the man asked, standing in front of him, forcing Jack to either crane his neck up, or stare at his belt. Jack chose to stare at his belt.  
  
"O'Neill, Jonathan, Major, 4453897," name, rank, serial number. He knew them as well as he knew his son's birthday. Better. He'd memorized them long before Charlie was born.  
  
"What was your mission?" the guy asked.  
  
"O'Neill, Jonathan, Major, 4453897." The man struck him across the face, he was wearing black leather gloves, funny how he hadn't noticed that before.  
  
"What was your mission?"  
  
"O'Neill, Jonathan, Major, 4453897." Another blow, this time to his stomach. The air was forced out of his body, he wanted to double up and re- learn how to breath. He couldn't double up, so he concentrated on convincing his lungs to continue working.  
  
It went on like that for a while. Hours, days, it didn't matter. Eventually Jack had simply passed out. Fatigue and dehydration and his wounds compounding to force him into what should have been a healing sleep.  
  
He woke up in a small cell, no bigger than his mattress back home. Three walls, the floor, and the ceiling were made out of cement. The front wall was iron bars. He was hurt. He was tired. He knew it was useless. But he tried anyway. He pulled at the bars, trying to force them open, to force his way out. It didn't work, of course.  
  
" 'ey, you up?" a voice questioned from the darkness beyond his cell. Whoever they were they spoke with a Brit's accent.  
  
"Yeah," he answered cautiously. He'd been warned time and time again of the mind games torturers would pull on their prisoners.  
  
"Finally, we were worried 'bout you, mate. Thought they might'a ended up killin' ye an' all. Been out for almos' two days."  
  
"Two days."  
  
"Yup."  
  
"Who're you?"  
  
"Gregory Bishop, of her Royal Majesties armed forces."  
  
"Jack O'Neill," Jack replied.  
  
"Fer a yank you ain't that talkative."  
  
"You talk enough for the both of us," he replied. "You said there were others?"  
  
"Five of me mates were captured with me," the Brit replied after a moment's silence. "Only four of us left, includin' me."  
  
"Sorry."  
  
"Not your fault." Jack didn't answer that. Part of his team's mission had been to locate and if possible rescue six captured British soldiers, if that didn't conflict with their primary objective. He laughed, he couldn't help it. The irony was just too much, even for him.  
  
Later more anonymous guards entered the cell block, shouting in their language at the prisoners. Jack knew enough of it to know that they were calling them swine, foreign pigs. Not men, only so much meat. He ignored them, retreating down the passages of his mind to a place where no one, not even the army shrinks, could get to him. He stayed there in the dark for he didn't know how long, not thinking of anything. That was the trick.  
  
As often as possible, Jack would simply turn his mind off, even during the torture. He would watch impassively from the back of his head as guards, or the man with the gloves, abused his body. Day after day. Week after week. Eventually, month after month. It got to the point where he didn't come out. Shut down permanently. Kaput. He might as well have been a vegetable, for all he neither moved nor spoke. He didn't even bother muttering his mantra anymore. The litany of name, rank, and serial number had ceased to have any meaning.  
  
The only time Jack ever emerged, after that, was when the guards came to the cell block for their sport. They were rather fond of picking prisoners at random, dragging them out of their cells, and beating them in the hall, in front of the others, for no reason other than they were bored, and it was allowed. When that happened, Jack came back. He would throw himself against the bars of his cell and scream insults at the sadists in their own tongue. They, having no other choice, would choose him to beat.  
  
There were two reasons Jack came alive at these moments. The first being that he believed it was his responsibility to protect the other prisoners as much as he was able. The second being that pain was the only way he could make sure that he still existed, and he couldn't let himself feel pain while they were interrogating him. Whether their method be beating, electric shock, or rape, he could not allow himself to feel anything while they were asking their questions. Because he didn't know. He didn't know if he would hold, or break. But during anonymous beatings, on the cement floor of the hall, with the only sound the curses of the guards, and the blows they rained down upon him, then he could allow himself to feel.  
  
He didn't know how much later, but one night someone prodded him awake. At first he'd thought it was another guard, come to drag him to another torture session, so he simply went limp, shutting his mind off. He was really to weak anymore to do anything else, even if he wanted to.  
  
The next thing Jack knew, he was slung over someone's shoulder, in a fireman's carry, being rushed over night dark sand. He blacked out, shut off, went bye bye.  
  
He woke up in a British hospital, being tended to by a nurse, who was talking to him about her little boy.  
  
"Now, my boy is a handful-"  
  
"Where am I?" he asked, his voice quiet, and broken. The nurse jumped about a foot in the air, straight up.  
  
"You're awake!" she said. She sounded surprised.  
  
Jack forced his eyes open, taking in his surroundings. Part of his brain was telling him that this could be a trap, that he should be escaping. But the dangerous part, the part that kept him alive, sort-of, was telling him to fucking relax. The nurse ran off, presumably to get a doctor.  
  
'What the hell happened?'  
  
'They escaped, took you with them.'  
  
'Who?'  
  
'The Brits.'  
  
'Why?'  
  
'Dunno.'  
  
* * *  
  
Jack ran a hand through his hair. The other prisoners had made a break for it, and taken him with them. He'd later discovered that they had thought they owed it to him, on account of him taking their beatings. He'd spent four months in that Iraqi hell. He'd spent another six months in hospitals, first medical, then mental, all military. He'd worked hard to appear sane and normal, upon his return to the states. Apparently he'd worked too hard, the brass had decided he was faking. They were right, of course, but the mental hospital had been just another type of prison. Granted, the food was better, and he actually got a mattress and sheets.  
  
The doctors had pried his feelings and secrets from him piece by piece. Forcing him to remember things he would just as soon forget. They still hadn't gotten the whole truth from him, and they never would. The army liked a good sociopath on the battlefield, but they were supposed to magically transform into perfectly sane citizens upon their return. So, he'd kept his little disappearing acts to himself. He also didn't mention the fact that, during the escape, when he'd forced them to put him down and run under his own power, it hadn't been him at the controls.  
  
He glanced across the fire, and saw himself, and not himself. This Jack O'Neill was wearing clean black jeans and a clean black t-shirt. His hair was a bit too long for regulations, and his eyes were a bit colder than the ones he let his friends see.  
  
"You going home anytime soon, Jack?" the cleaner version asked, hands in pockets. Jack didn't reply, so the other one answered his own question. "No, you've got one more memory left, don't you?"  
  
"No!" Jack shouted, pulling in around himself, wrapping his arms around his head and rocking back and forth. "Not that, please."  
  
The other Jack just smiled, a little sadly.  
  
* * *  
  
"I don't believe this!" Daniel exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air and pacing around the conference room. "I can't believe you're giving up!"  
  
"Dr. Jackson, we have to face the very real possibility that Col. O'Neill is," the General didn't finish his statement.  
  
"No!," Daniel shook his head, wrapping his arms around himself. "Jack's not dead. He wouldn't just go out there to die. He's out there, and he needs our help!"  
  
"He's out there because he didn't want our help," Sam said, positioning herself directly in front of the pacing anthropologist, halting his pacing. "For better or worse, he's out there, and he'll come home when he's ready."  
  
"He's not dead, Sam," Daniel said, his voice firm, but holding an edge of desperation. Sam smiled.  
  
"I don't think he'd let himself die, Daniel. He'll come home."  
  
"I agree. Col. O'Neill is devoted to the fight against the Gou'uld. He would not allow himself to die uselessly," Teal'c put in, reassuringly.  
  
General Hammond sighed. The truth was, he didn't know whether or not his 2IC was still alive. But if these people could hope, then so could he.  
  
Seven:  
  
"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust."  
  
"We're so sorry for your loss."  
  
"Our condolences."  
  
"Ashes to ashes."  
  
"Ashes to ashes."  
  
Sarah was crying. Had been crying. Hadn't stopped crying, except to sleep. Even then she cried, and he could do nothing. His grief and pain wrapped themselves in a noose round his neck, and tightened, until he couldn't utter so much as one word of comfort, if there were words of comfort for a mother who'd lost a son.  
  
It was his fault. His gun. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.  
  
"Jack, I can't imagine the pain you're feeling."  
  
"If you ever want to talk."  
  
"My condolences."  
  
"Ashes to ashes."  
  
"We're so sorry."  
  
Jack looked down at the grave. His son's grave. Charlie. God.  
  
"No one should have to outlive their child, Jack. Not even you." Jack's head shot up, to see his mirror image standing in front of him, across his son's grave.  
  
"What do you know about this?" he demanded.  
  
"More than you might think," the other demanded, hands in the pockets of his suit.  
  
"I don't want to talk to you," Jack said, shaking his head.  
  
"Jack, who are you talking to?" Erica, one of Sarah's friends, asked. Jack shook his head, unable to speak to her. "Sarah's waiting in the car," she told him.  
  
"Tell her to go on," he said, finding his voice only to send his wife away.  
  
"Jack."  
  
"Tell her to go on."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"Jack, it's not your fault."  
  
"It was my gun. My gun!"  
  
"You didn't force Charlie to pick it up. You didn't tell him to grab it."  
  
"Shut up."  
  
"It wasn't your fault. It's a tragedy, Jack, a fucking tragedy. But it's no ones fault."  
  
"Go the hell away."  
  
"Jack."  
  
"Get the fuck out of my head!"  
  
The other shook his own head, sadly, a look which mixed pity, rage, and sadness on his face. Jack turned his back to him, facing the funeral procession, which was winding its slow way out of the cemetery. That was no better. He turned back, but the other was gone.  
  
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Ashes to ashes.  
  
* * *  
  
Col. Jack O'Neill, AWOL for almost a month, strolled into the Cheyenne Mountain Complex on an average Monday morning. His hair recently trimmed, freshly shaved, and wearing clean clothes for the first time since he'd high-tailed it off into the wilderness. The guard on duty at the sign-in stared at him, slack jawed, for the entire thirty seconds it took him to sign his name.  
  
He waited impatiently as the elevator made its way too slow descent into the belly of the mountain. The guard at the second sign-in station was no better than the first. "Colonel O'Neill, sir. We thought you were dead." Jack just smiled as he signed his name.  
  
"Whatever gave you that idea, airman?"  
  
"Sir, we found your truck, we've been looking for you for the last three and a half weeks."  
  
"Really?" Jack asked, making sure his voice fairly dripped with sarcasm. The guard didn't get it.  
  
"Really, sir."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Jack shoved his hands into the pockets of his BDU's as he strolled down the hallway and towards his CO's office. He was betting that he'd be paying six kinds of hell as soon as he strolled through the door.  
  
* * *  
  
General George Hammond sat behind his desk, catching up on paperwork. Silently cursing the fact that the bureaucratic machine kept chugging away while one of his best men was missing, and his number one team was effectively dry docked. Teal'c had gone out with every search and rescue team Doc. Frasier would allow, as had Daniel and Sam, until Frasier had told the two humans that their bodies couldn't stand up to the stress, and ordered them to stay on base. She'd threatened to confine them to the medical ward before they would follow her orders, even then they had griped about it to him.  
  
His phone rang, and he reached out and answered it automatically. "Hammond."  
  
"Sir, Col. O'Neill," the voice on the other end started.  
  
Hammond sighed. "You've found his body." It was a statement.  
  
"In a manner of speaking, sir. He just walked past the second sign-in. He's heading for your office, sir."  
  
Hammond was about to reply, when said Colonel walked through his open office door. A knock on the door frame announcing his presence. Hammond hung the phone up.  
  
"Reporting for duty, General Hammond," Jack said, standing at attention before the desk.  
  
"I'll be damned."  
  
* * *  
  
"Where is he?!" Daniel demanded of the first orderly he saw upon entering the medical wing. The medical staff had been warned in advance of the anthropologists probable course of reaction.  
  
"Examining room three," the orderly responded promptly. The caffeine addled man rushed past him and towards his destination.  
  
"You're alive," he said, coming to a stop in the doorway of the medical bay. Jack, sitting shirtless on the table as an anonymous nurse stuck a needle in his arm looked up at him and grinned.  
  
"Danny!" he exclaimed. "Nice to see you."  
  
Daniel did a double take. " 'Nice to see you,' ? You disappear without so much as a word, and the only thing you can think to say is 'Nice to see you,'?" he asked incredulously. Jack shrugged, then winced as the motion moved the needle positioned at the bend of his arm. The nurse frowned at him.  
  
"It is good to see you well, ColonelO'Neill," Teal'c said, coming in behind Daniel. He'd threatened the first nurse he'd come across. Thankfully the medical staff had been warned about him as well.  
  
"Nice to see you too, Teal'c," Jack said, jumping off of the table as the nurse finished, then looking around. "Now what the hell did they do with my shirt?" he muttered. "Ah, there it is," he answered his own question, locating said shirt under the table. He pulled it on.  
  
"Colonel, sir. You're alright?" that was Carter, with her ever present 'Sir's.  
  
"Yes, Carter. I'm fine. Nice to see you, by the way." Jack rubbed the back of his neck, then looked up at the three members of his team. They were all glaring at him, even Teal'c.  
  
Carter had her hands on her hips, her mouth set in a grim line and her eyes narrowed. Daniel had his arms crossed over his chest, and was staring steadily at him, as if he might disappear at any moment. Teal'c looked as stoic as ever, but he too had his gaze fixed pointedly on him.  
  
"What?" Jack asked, feeling somewhat persecuted. First Hammond reams him from top to bottom. Now his own team were looking ready to do the same.  
  
"What the hell were you thinking?"  
  
"Why did you not contact us?"  
  
"What happened, Sir?"  
  
All three questioned at once. Jack closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. "Oh fer cryin' out loud, can't a guy go off to find himself around here?" he asked, no one in particular. He wasn't even aware he'd said anything until Daniel spoke.  
  
"Huh?"  
  
Jack sighed. "I, had to go sort some stuff out," Jack said, shoving his hands into his pockets. His team didn't look any more convinced.  
  
"What kind of stuff?" Daniel asked suspiciously.  
  
"Personal stuff," Jack answered, almost but not quite defensively. He did, after all, deserve this. He'd made these people worry about him.  
  
"Uh-huh. This personal stuff have anything to do with our last mission?" the linguist asked, taking a step forward.  
  
"A little," Jack admitted. Daniel wasn't satisfied. "Look, the whole thing just, dredged up things which I'd rather have kept forgotten. I've dealt with it. It's over. I'm better." One of Daniel's eyebrows shot up. "Really!"  
  
* * *  
  
"So, what the hell do we do now?"  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"Now that I'm out again, what're you gonna do?"  
  
"What're you gonna do, Jack?"  
  
"I don't know."  
  
End . . . 


End file.
